Just another Sunday morning.

I haven’t slept. I had a minor freak out at 5 this morning, during a rush of abandon I put on a pot of pasta, took the cheese out of the fridge and waited, bubbling with some kind of strange excitement I shuttled back and forth from the kitchen to my room. A few hours earlier I had logged on to Pretty Thin chat for the first time in over a year so I spilled this horrible confession and someone managed to talk me down. I drained the pasta, dumped it in to a plastic bag, put the cheese back in the fridge and made noodles. The very idea of shovelling the pasta, drowned in butter and cheese in to my mouth drove me to the gym, the Sunday 8am crown all running and cycling and jumping wildly about me. I stretched, I twisted, I lifted, I flexed and I did my half run, half speed walk up the mechanical hill towards the disappearing point in my head. Sweating, I sat down in the stretching area and I stared absent minded out of the windows that looked over the white and pink blossoms that lined the garden, decorating the water fountain, reminding me that it’s spring. I momentarily heard my own thoughts - that’s the wonder of going to the gym, it’s an hour or two or three where all thoughts are muted and replaced with music and panting – and I wondered if I could realistically lose 20lb in 2 and a half months. All my excitement about going to Ibiza has a thin layer of fear over it; I can’t look like this when I go. I can’t smile and laugh in the sun whilst hearing myself silently scream because I’m looking at myself in a bikini, all ugly scars and body taking up more than its allotted space.

xo